


In-Betweens

by titanjammies



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (by comedy i mean its like at least half dark humor), Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Aromantic, Comedy, Nonbinary Character, Other, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trans Character, but legit angst will happen probably, like lots of it half the cast is ghosts so yeah there's death, the tag says angst but i wouldn't really call it angst it's mostly just kind of gloomy and bleak, warning for death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titanjammies/pseuds/titanjammies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschstein is 19 years old, lives alone, has a boring part-time job at an organic grocery store, has four friends in the whole world (not including his dog), goes through life day after day with very little change, and has absolutely no impact on anyone or anything.</p><p>Oh and he talks to ghosts. That's kind of important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the witch's house

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a rut with wmtc right now (a new chapter will be up in the near future hopefully) , and I got a cool idea for an au where jean sees ghosts and ran with it.
> 
> trigger warnings in the first chapter for death, family death, ghosts, possible unreality, and briefly implied hospitals
> 
> also it's pretty gloomy but that's just the nature of the au is that if you're looking for a really happy fic this isn't for you probably.

_november 17. 4:37 pm._

Winter’s early this year. Halloween was only a few weeks ago, but it feels like December, and this morning I overheard some of the cashiers in the grocery store talking about snow. And because the world hates my guts and my car is a piece of junk, I have to walk two miles in the cold without a proper jacket to meet someone i’ve never met outside of some admittedly sketchy online chat rooms. So here I am, teeth chattering, freezing my ass off, half-waddling through a nice little quiet neighborhood, all alone, wearing beat up dark clothes with my hood up.

And I’m lost.

Maybe I should just give up finding this place and go home, I think, even though I’ve been putting this off for too long already. I’ll tell Hanji that I couldn’t find their place and ask them for better directions. I’m about to head back the way I came, but a shrill voice from across the street stops me.

“Hey Hoodie Man!”

For a second I think something’s following me, a neighborhood ghost or something, trying to piss me off. I wheel around but before I can tell it to fuck off and leave me alone, I notice a group of kids gaping at me, all lined up on the edge of the sidewalk. One of them is struggling to hold a soccer ball under his short little arm.

“You looking for the witch’s house?” one of them, a boy in a camouflage parka shouts. It doesn’t even sound like a question so much as an accusation. This kid is the tallest of the group, with a turned-up nose and white-blonde hair sticking out from under a Batman hat. I pin him down instantly as one of those rude kids who steps on anthills and thinks he’s really cool because someone in his family owns a hunting rifle. Another kid, a small girl with a mass of dark curly hair  and bright red rainboots, pinches him hard on the nose.

“We’re not supposed to call her that!” She says. Batman rubs his nose and grumbles something i can’t hear.

“What witch?” I ask.

“There’s a witch who lives on the corner of the street, but my parents think it’s mean to call people witches.” Rainboots says.

“How do you know this person’s a witch?” I have a feeling about this. I can’t tell if it’s a good one or a really bad one.

“Her house is all weird!” Batman explains, “I hear she takes kids in and feeds them to her animals!” It’s not a perfect guess, but I’m really not in the mood to stand out here in the cold for much longer, and I’m starting to think these kids are giving me directions.

“So are you looking for her?” Soccer ball kid asks.

“Yeah…” I trail off, “Corner of this street right?” Rainboots nods, her hair bouncing around wildly.

“Thanks, kid.” I start to run, but my legs feel numb and it’s more like waddle-skipping at this point.

“I bet you’re a witch too!” I hear Batman yelling after me. I ignore him and keep walking, shoving my hands inside my pockets in a vain attempt to warm them up

I know which house it is right away. It definitely looks like a witch lives here. The porch planks are riddled with cracks and sagging bits, and the wood looks like its starting to rot. The paint is so chipped and faded that it’s impossible to tell what color this place used to be, and the windows look like they haven’t been cleaned in a century. There’s ten or so flowerpots sitting around, all of them full of dead plants that must’ve been put out here in the summer and forgotten when it got colder. What really completes the witchy vibe nicely is that the homeowner seems to be completely obsessed with hanging shit from the ceiling. They’ve got more wind chimes than anyone should ever have (good thing there’s no wind today), strings of beads and chunks of quartz, dried up plants, skeleton keys, stuffed animals strung up in various positions, and even what looks like old teeth and bones. The steps and porch are painfully creaky and I’m worried that I’ll put my foot through one of the boards on my way up to the door. Thankfully, I’m not too heavy and the wood must be stronger than it looks because I somehow make it to the door. I ring the bell, and from inside a dog barks and I hear heavy footsteps coming closer.

“Moment of truth, Jean” I tell myself, “look alive.”

* * *

I guess I should get my whole sob story out of the way before I continue, which I really don’t want to do but since it’s kind of important I kind of have to tell it anyway.

I’m surrounded by dead things. When I was a kid I thought it was normal, because nobody made me believe any different. Kids make shit up all the time. They’ve got overactive imaginations, or they just want to tell you a cool story. So nobody thought twice about some little 4 year old who said there was an old lady on a bike who disappeared halfway down the street, or that he sometimes talked to the floating shapes in his grandma’s attic. Nobody told me they weren’t real, so I just thought everyone could see them until I was about 7. Then my grandma died, and at her funeral nobody took notice of the fact that she was standing in the back of the church laughing her elderly ass off the entire time, and I realized something really weird was going on.

The thing is, I barely told anyone about it. Not because I thought I’d be labeled a freak or whatever. I honestly didn’t care, but I didn’t want to end up like those kids who say they’ve seen heaven and suddenly everyone’s calling them amazing and inspirational and media never leaves them alone ever. I told my friends, who mostly thought i was full of shit, and that was the end of trying to get anyone to believe me. I don’t think I ever even told my mom, now that I think about it.

She’s dead, by the way. Almost everyone I know is, and I’m not saying this for sympathy, it’s just that that seems like one of my defining traits is that I attract death like a really morbid magnetic field. My mom died the summer after I finished high school. After she died one of my aunts (Who I’d literally never met until the funeral but is a real estate agent and now sends me a bag of mini Kit Kats for every holiday.) helped me figure shit out with where I’d live and stuff. I ended up selling my old house and moving to a weird little apartment complex in an older part of a city that I won’t bother to mention by name because it doesn’t matter all that much.

Two years later, I’m nearly 20 and I’m still living there. I’ve got a boring job at a tiny, badly lit health food store, I’m at constant war with an old ghost who (I kid you not) haunts my heating and air conditioning from time to time, and I have exactly three living friends. Four if you count my dog Benny, and five if you count Hanji. Sometimes I do. I keep to myself and I’m pretty sure I’ve made absolutely no impact on anything or anyone, which is pretty pathetic but I live with it.

I’ve learned to not doubt whether things are real or not. Ghosts? Real. Witches? Real as far as I know. Werewolves? Never seen one, but they’re probably real. The constant fear that my life is going nowhere? A little bit too real. So I knew there had to be people like me. I know of two. Their names are Mikasa Ackerman and Hanji Zoe.

I met Mikasa kind of by accident. There’s an old empty middle school out in the suburbs that somehow is completely unhaunted, and sometimes I like to hang around there when my apartment building gets too loud or too miserable. Apparently, I’m not the only one who does this because about a year ago I (quite literally) ran into Mikasa while wandering the halls. She’s a year older than me, and lives with her living brother Eren and dead friend Armin in a small house on the opposite side of town. We’ve become sort of a support group for each other almost, meeting at the middle school sometimes and talking or just walking around the empty halls. She’s not the only person who knows about the ghost thing, but she’s the only person I can actually talk to face to face who gets what it’s like.

I met Hanji online, back when I was 18 and convinced I was the only one in the world who was like this. One day, I half-jokingly searched “ghost seer help” and found a legit website full of people asking questions and getting answers. Somehow I got acquainted with Hanji, a then 22 year old agender ghost-seer who’d been seeing them for their entire life and was was interested in witchcraft and giving advice to anyone like them who might need it, so when this mess of a kid came crawling for help they were happy to give it to me. Long story short, by some coincidence, or maybe fate I’m not sure, it turned out Hanji and I live in the same city and didn’t even know it until this year.

Which brings me to right now, November 17, outside a house that I’m assuming is Hanji’s, losing feeling in my hands, looking into the face of the person I’m now about to put all my trust in.

* * *

I don’t know what I was expecting Hanji to look like, so I can’t exactly say that I’m surprised. But at the same time, it’s not like you see someone like them walking down the street every day. They’re a few inches shorter than me, but a lot sturdier, with strong shoulders and pretty impressive muscles. I try to imagine them lifting weights and running on a treadmill, but I can’t see it. Their dark brown eyes look me up and down from behind red-rimmed rectangular glasses, taking it all in like they’re reading a book. They remind me of a wise bird like you might see in a children’s book illustration. Maybe it’s the hooked nose or the way they’re looking at me. I feel like I’m being analyzed, like they’re seeing everything that makes Jean Kirschstein tick just by staring at me. Their face is framed by wild, frizzed out chunks (which isn’t the right word but I’m no writer so just go with it) of dark brown hair pulled back into what looks like it used to be a ponytail. They’ve got on about a million different woven bracelets on one arm, all done in multicolor embroidery thread. I wonder if they made all of those. They’re wearing a huge, chunky-knitted grey-blue cardigan over a long mossy green skirt and one of those ugly hyper-realistic wolf t-shirts. You know, the kind with wolf silhouettes  howling at the moon and big intense wolf faces superimposed over the whole picture.

“Are you Hanji?” I ask, because I’m still not sure.

“That depends. Are you Jean?” They cross their arms and lean against the door frame, and I can’t tell if they’re joking around with me or if they would ever actually have to lie about who they are. I nod slowly, not really sure how to respond. They grin, “I’m just messing with you, Jean. Come on inside.”

I laugh awkwardly and step inside the house, still trying to figure out how to react to the whole thing. I knew Hanji was into the whole witches and spells and curses deal, but it still comes as a shock to me, probably because the rest of the neighborhood is so mundane and ordinary. The inside is a lot less abandoned looking than the outside of the house, but there’s still shit hanging from windows and doorways and hooks on the ceiling, potted plants under nearly all the windows, weird charts and diagrams on the walls, and stuff that I’m guessing are ingredients for whatever weird crap Hanji does in their spare time all over the coffee table in the small living room. The furniture is all mismatched and there are two dogs napping on the ugly green sofa. One of the dogs is a big, fluffy brown mutt and the other is small and patchy. Some kind of terrier maybe.

“I didn’t see a car around,” Hanji says, flopping down into a red leather arm chair, “Did you walk here?”

“Yeah. My car’s kind of… out of commission right now.”

“Is your coat also ‘out of commission’?” They ask, and even though it should sound rude, I don’t think they mean it to be.

“Actually my coat got, uh,stuck in a food processor.” Yeah. I wish I was kidding. I also wish I didn’t have to spend money on a new blender, but we can’t always get what we want. To my surprise, Hanji doesn’t bother asking how my coat ended up in the food processor. I guess this kind of thing is normal with people like us.

“Want some tea?” they ask. I don’t actually like tea that much, but my hands are screaming from being frozen and now slowly thawed out, so I nod. One of the dogs, the terrier, sits up, yawns, and walks over to me.

“That’s Sawney. The big one’s Bean,” Hanji explains, rising from the armchair and walking backwards into the kitchen, “I hope you’re not allergic to dogs.”

“Nah. Just as long as you don’t have cats I’m fine.” I say, reaching down to scratch Sawney’s head. Over on the couch, I can hear Bean snoring. He looks like a lazy bear.

“You can sit down anywhere,” Hanji calls from the kitchen, “I’ll be there in just a second and we can get down to business.”

I sit down on the couch, taking up the tiny area that isn’t occupied by Bean. There’s definitely something in this house, I think, besides us and the dogs. It’s not surprising. Back when I first started having problems with my air conditioning ghost, Hanji explained that it’s common for people like us. They say it’s probably a sense that ghosts have, they can feel a connection to people who can see them, and sometimes ghosts will seek us out specifically because they want to talk to living humans again or need help moving on to whatever comes next. Or, in the case of my roommate, they’re just assholes who like to break your space heaters and destroy your clothes and kitchen appliances. We’re easy targets for haunting, and it’s not so bad most of the time, until you get an angry spirit on your tail. It’s not common but it happens and it can really fuck you up physically and mentally. (Unfortunately, I speak from experience.) Whoever’s sticking around in this house probably isn’t too much of a bother, though. I can tell they’re there, but the feeling is neutral enough that I wouldn’t notice it if I wasn’t paying attention. They do feel sort of pissed off, but a lot of ghosts are. I mean, you’d probably be pissed too if you were dead.

Hanji comes back into the living room holding two mugs of tea, steam rising from each one. They hand me a blue mug painted with a pattern of overlapping white blobs rising from the bottom of the mug and reaching about halfway up, each one with two black dots painted near the rounded top of the blobs. Lovely, I think sarcastically, a ghost mug. I really fucking love ghosts. I put my hands around the mug anyway, glad for the heat of it.

“So,” I say, “About the whole ‘I see dead people’ thing.”

Hanji sits back down in the armchair and looks me in the eye.

“About that.” They repeat, “You know I’m not an expert. I may know a lot but not everything.”

I nod. We’ve gone over this part a million times.

“And I can’t do everything, Jean. Real spells don’t work the way they do in fairy tales.” They continue. Again, I’ve heard this whole lecture. Real magic has limits, this isn’t Harry Potter, blah blah rules blah.

“Yeah I know that, but you’ll still listen to what I have to say, right?”

Hanji nods, waiting for me to start talking.

“I want a way to stop seeing them.” I say. As soon as the words are out, I want to push them back in and trap them behind my teeth. The air in the room feels heavier, and Hanji just stares at me. They haven’t said anything yet, but I have a sinking feeling that they’re going to say I’m asking too much.

“You can’t.” They say. I knew that was coming but I still feel like I’m deflating. “It’s not something you can get rid of. Believe me, I’ve tried it too.”

“But maybe there’s a way that you don’t know about,” I blurt out, “Maybe you just didn’t do it r-”

“Jean, I’m sorry. What you’re asking just isn’t possible.” They cut me off, “Normally, I’d say I’ll look into it further, but we both know that there just isn’t a way to get rid of this. Unless you’ve got a spare time machine lying around.”

Right, I think, the whole ‘link between life and death’ bs. Yet another thing I’ve already heard. People like us usually get the way we are because we’ve cheated death. Sometimes it’s because of complications during birth, or something happens to us when we’re babies, like me. For me, it happened when I wasn’t even a year old. I’m not really sure what was wrong with me, I just suddenly had a freaky high fever out of nowhere and should’ve died but somehow didn’t. Basically, you pass through this sort of middle ground between being alive and being dead. Mikasa’s near-death experience happened when she was older, so she actually remembers what that place is like. She says it’s like a really vivid dream, and you’re aware of everything but you can’t move or speak, and the rest is too hard to describe. Anyway, if you’re there long enough it does weird shit to you and after you come out of it, you’re stuck with a bunch of new and annoying dead friends.

So yeah, I don’t know why I thought anyone could fix it. It’s not like being optimistic has ever worked for me before.

“Yeah I get it,” I say, trying not to sound as angry as I feel. I know I shouldn’t be mad at Hanji. It’s not their fault we’re like this, or that nothing can make us normal. I’m just angry in general, like the whole world should be sorry. I don’t mean to sound so bitter but it comes out that way regardless. “Thanks anyway.”

I get up from the sofa, scratch Bean’s ear, and down what’s left of my tea even though it’s cold and doesn’t taste good. I’m not looking forward to walking home or even being home because Dazz is probably fucking with my heater again, but I don’t really have a choice, and I’d rather not dump my bad mood on Marco or Connie or Mikasa. They’ve probably got other stuff to do anyway.

“I can drive you home if you need me to,” Hanji says, sensing my disappointment, “Or let you borrow a coat. Levi’s might be too small for you, but some of mine might work.”

“Is Levi your…” I gesture around in the general area, hoping Hanji gets what I mean. They nod.

“He’s the old homeowner. I got this house for a pretty good price because nobody wanted to buy it after he kicked the bucket. He stays out of the way most of the time unless he wants to say something rude. He won’t bother you.”

“Ah. So, could I borrow a coat from you?”

“Yeah,” Hanji says, going to a closet  near the front door and rifling through it until they pull out a large, greyish-olive green canvas parka with a big faux fur thing on the hood. They hold it up to me, and once they decide that it’ll do they hand it to me. “You can keep that until you get your own.”

I thank them and start to leave, but they stop me.

“Jean, I really am sorry. If you do need any help with the ghost thing, you can always come talk to me.”

“Yeah,” I say, halfway out the door, “Yeah okay. Thanks, Hanji.”

* * *

_7:08 pm._

By the time I get home, it’s almost dark and the streetlamps are on. I’m less cold than I was on the way to Hanji’s, but my hands are freezing again because I don’t have any gloves. I saw the kids again. They were playing with the soccer ball, and totally butchering the actual rules of soccer because Batman kept picking up the ball and throwing it away from the game and into the bushes. They stopped when they saw me, and I waved at them.

“So did the witch do anything weird to you?” one shouted at me, and they all started asking questions, talking over each other.

“Does she really keep people’s heads in jars?”

“Did you guys kill anyone?”

“Did you die?”

I’m really not in the mood to talk to them right now, but it’s obvious they won’t leave me alone until I start talking.

“No, there’s no heads or any body parts in jars and we didn’t kill anyone and clearly I’m not dead.” I told them, “They’re not that kind of witch.”

The kids seemed a little disappointed that Hanji’s not committing any crimes or spilling virgin blood or whatever, but thankfully they let it go and let me keep walking.

When I unlock the door to my apartment, I find it surprisingly not too cold. I guess Dazz decided to give me a break for once, which might be the best thing that’s happened to me all day. I shut the door behind me and almost immediately, I hear Benny in the other room lumbering over to greet me. I feel a little better when he slides into view, slipping across the hardwood floor and jumping up to say hi. I’m not sure what sort of dog Benny is, but he looks like what would happen if you crossed a bear, a wolf, and about seven completely different dog breeds. I got him from a shelter around the time I moved here, and even at the shelter nobody could tell what the fuck he was. At the time I didn’t even want any pets, but Marco talked me into getting a dog because “you’ll get lonely in that empty apartment and look how sweet this one is, Jean.” Of course he was right (he usually is) and I ended up with this giant furry infant as my roommate. Well, one of my roommates. I have nothing positive to say about the other one except that at least he’s polite enough to stay in the air vents most of the time.

I flop down onto the faded thrift store sofa, and Benny lies down on the floor between me and the coffee table.

“Hey Dazz!” I yell, closing my eyes and putting an arm over my face, “I know you’re there, asshole. Did anyone call me while I was gone?”

The starts flickering on and off in response.

“That’s hilarious. If you break that you’re fucking dead.”

“I’m already dead,” a voice says, echo-y and hollow. Ghost voices are hard to describe. When a ghost talks, a normal person might feel a cold breeze or hear a wind blowing unless the ghosts wants them to hear what they’re saying. What I hear sounds both like an invasive thought and something being projected through surround sound speakers. I can’t really explain it in a way that makes sense.

“Come on, Dazz, cut me a fucking break. I know you’ve got that weird ghostly mental caller ID thing, and the home phone doesn’t even have regular caller ID. Just tell me if anyone called while I was out.”

Dazz is quiet for a minute. He’s probably thinking about whether or not he should shut off my heat again for this.

“Your boyfriend called once. Left a message wondering how it went with your witch friend or something.” He says finally. Oh god, here we go.

“If you’re talking about Marco, he’s not my boyfriend.” I open my eyes and sit up to take off my shoes.

“ _Sure_ he isn’t.”

“For the last fucking time, he’s aromantic. _I’m_ aromantic. We aren’t romantically involved in any way. And what’s with your weird fascination with Marco? Really, it’s kind of creepy.”

Dazz flickers the TV again, probably realizing that he’s not winning this argument.

“Fuck off, Dazz.” Somehow, that actually works. One thing I can say about Dazz is that as annoying as he is, at least he’s not relentless. Honestly, I almost feel sorry for the guy. I’ve never bothered to ask how he died or why his spirit stuck around after his body checked out, but he’s clearly not happy about it. It’s kind of pathetic. Then again, so am I so I’m really one to talk.

I should call Marco, tell him how it went, all that crap, but talking to anyone right now feels too exhausting and I really just want to go to bed even though it’s not even 8 yet. I’ll call him, I tell myself, just give me a minute and I’ll do it.

An hour later, I wake up on the couch to find the TV on at top volume playing that My Strange Addiction episode about the guy fucking his car. Dazz must have turned it on while I was asleep. I reach over and grab the remote to turn the TV off.

“Shit,” I mumble, hanging off the side of the couch “Okay yeah I should call Marco now.”

Benny turns his head and licks my face. I roll myself off the sofa and search around for the phone. I find it in the kitchen, and dial Marco’s number. I sit up on the counter, like I used to do when I was a kid. The clock on the microwave says it’s almost 9. Outside the window, it’s actually snowing a little bit. I realize I’m still wearing Hanji’s coat. The phone rings a few times before I hear Marco’s voice on the other end.

“Jean?”

“Hey,” I say, leaning my back against the wall.

“You sound tired,” He remarks. He sounds genuinely concerned, but that’s just how he is.

“Sorry. Fell asleep and forgot to call you back. And I had to fight a ghost to find out you called.” I pull my legs up into my chest and rest my chin on my knees.

“So how did it go with your friend?”

“I uh..” I really don’t want to talk about it.

“That bad, huh?” Marco guesses.

“Yeah, about that. I’m kinda stuck like this forever.”

“Oh.”

Neither one of us says anything. I have nothing to say, and Marco, for everything good about him, really doesn’t know how to react to this kind of thing.

“Are you okay?” He asks finally.

“Yeah. I’m disappointed, but I’ll live.” I tell him. I mean it, too. I don’t really see a point in lying. As much as I want to trash my apartment and kick a wall in because I really am frustrated and angry, I’ll be fine. I’ve lived with ghosts for 19 years and 7 months, surely I’ll get by with them for the rest of my life.

“How’s your heating?” Marco says. I can’t help but smile a little bit.

“Surprisingly, not bad. He left it alone tonight. Oh, also Dazz has a crush on you. Hang on I think he might have shut it off again.”

Marco laughs.

“I have to go. I’ll see you later, Jean.”

“Yeah. Later.” I hang up. Dazz actually did turn my heater off again, so I’ll have to go find my space heater and hope he doesn’t break that too. I heat up some leftover pizza that I had last night and go look for it. I end up falling asleep on the couch, thinking about the events of today until I literally can’t keep my eyes open.

For as weird and miserable as my life might be, I realize that it’s pretty ordinary. I’ll wake up tomorrow and go through a routine, and I’ll still make no impact and accomplish nothing. Life goes on.


	2. Me, the Elderly, and the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean gets a new roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I thought it would, because I get ideas slower than anyone I've ever met. The good news is the real plot is starting to happen. I don't have too much to say about this chapter except the title is a play on a book called Me, the Missing, and the Dead that has no connection to this fic except that the dead feature heavily. warnings for food mentions, also death but that's kind of a given

I wake up disoriented and cold. I can practically see my breath in front of me, and I’m afraid that  if I look down at my feet they’ll be purple. Dazz didn’t turn the heat back on, and I fell asleep before I got a chance to find my space heater. Also, my bed. I don’t remember exactly when I crashed last night, but it can’t have been too long after talking to Marco. I must’ve been distracted or too worn out to give a shit and ended up falling asleep on the couch because that’s where I am now, lying on my stomach with my face wedged in the corner where the back and the seat connect.

On the floor next to me, I can hear Benny doing that half-sighing half-snoring thing dogs do. What an asshole, I think, with your fur coat and natural body heat. I force myself to roll over and reach my hand down to scratch his head, earning a tongue in my face for my efforts. I don’t want to get up from the couch because that means I’d have to expend energy and expose myself to the cold apartment, but I’m eventually driven to the kitchen by my weird alien noises and a feeling not unlike a small animal running around and clawing at the inside of my stomach. The clock says it’s 9:45 am. It’s still cold and cloudy, and if it hadn’t gotten dark last night I’d wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between today and yesterday. None of the snow that fell last night stuck, except a few stubborn patches on the tops of cars. The CVS down on the corner across from my building houses the only sign of life this morning. Through the store’s huge, floor-to-ceiling windows I can just barely see two human-shapes standing around the cash register, partially hidden by a big banner announcing a buy-one-get-one-free deal on both Hershey’s Kisses and Crest toothbrushes that’s been there since I moved in. I consider getting myself dressed and walking over there to get myself breakfast, but before I can do any of that three things happen: The front door bangs open, Benny starts barking loud enough to wake the literal not-ghostly dead, and someone lets themself into my home, announcing their arrival with heavy stomping footsteps.

“Mornin’ shitboy,” the person says. Involuntarily, my shoulders jump up to my ears and I hear a strangled yelp coming out of my throat even though I definitely didn’t consciously make any noise. What startles me isn’t the fact that somebody is in my apartment, calling me “shitboy”, because I know exactly who it is and why she’s here, but does she have to be so loud?

I turn to face her, trying to look pissed and not like a scared deer. She’s leaning casually against the door frame, wearing her pale green work t-shirt under a black leather jacket, arms crossed and one clunky black boot pressed against the wall. I don’t know all that much about Ymir, even though she lives right down the hall. We both work at the same hole-in-the-wall, hippie crap grocery store four days a week, and at some point just decided “hey let’s get into the eco-friendly spirit and save energy by carpooling.” (Actually we carpool because my car belongs in a junkyard, but back when we started out there was this girl who always came into the store to buy granola or whatever and Ymir told her some bs story about saving the planet by carpooling to impress her. Apparently it worked because they’re dating now.) What I do know about her is this: She’s a few years older than me, lives alone, bullshitted her way into a committed relationship with some angelic organic-food-eating art student named Christa, thinks she’s punk, and pretends she doesn’t like anyone or anything. The key word  there is “pretends.”

“This is the worst guard dog I’ve ever seen,” she says, letting Benny lick her hand and giving him a lazy scratch behind the ear. In her other hand, she’s holding a crumpled-up paper bag which means she already had breakfast, “When the hell did you get out of bed, anyway? I tried calling you like three times.”

I mumble some excuse and push my way past her, hoping I can change my shirt before she notices I haven’t done that yet.

“If we’re late I’m blaming your sorry ass,” she accuses, “Holy shit have you even gotten dressed yet?” Dammit. I duck into the bedroom and start rooting around in one of the many piles of clothing for my work shirt.

“I woke up late this morning, okay? Cut me some slack.” I call to her from the floor, trying to figure out if I put the shirt in the drawers or not. It’s sort of hard to find anything in here, because lately I’ve taken to just throwing clothes on the floor in an organized system of piles instead of making use of things like drawers and closets. The problem is that I can’t remember which pile is for dirty clothes and which one is for slightly less dirty clothes that can be worn a few more times before making it into the dirty clothes pile, and which pile my work shirt is in. I should probably wash this stuff soon.

“Yeah, well apparently you didn’t get any actual rest, since you still look like a zombie.” I choose to ignore that remark.  I find the shirt (it was hidden under a sweatshirt and four mismatched socks) and tug it on over the one from yesterday, trying to trick myself into thinking this will make up for not having a proper coat. It won’t.

“Let’s go.” I say, entering the living room, putting on my jacket and heading straight for the door, Ymir in tow.

Ymir’s car is an old red pickup truck with an unpredictable heating and cooling system, bumper stickers that all say things like “I voted for SWIRLING VOID OF DARKNESS AND INEVITABLE DEATH for president 2012,” one broken side mirror, and a really weird permanent smell somewhere between old people perfume and hot cheetos. I’m not allowed to complain about any aspect of it, because I’m the one driving a glorified hunk of scrap metal that can’t seem to stay functional for more than a month at a time. Plus, Ymir has a reputation to uphold as someone who saves the environment by hauling her neighbor’s ass to work all the time, so she wouldn’t dare kick me out.

“Ever heard of air freshener?” I ask while she rummages around in her pocket for something. The scent of cheetos and grandmother is suffocating this morning, and every time one of us breathes I imagine we’re exhaling clouds of it, filling the cramped front seat with it. When Ymir turns the truck on and pulls onto the street, it’s loud and grating and probably not the kind of sound a functional engine would be making. This car gives me a headache.

“Yeah, and it’s useless,” she says, not taking her eyes off the road, “I think this car just absorbs any smell you put into it and adds it to what’s already there. I hate cheetos, but someone eats them one time and now I can’t get rid of them. Remind me never to let you cart your dog around in this thing.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Please tell me we have time to stop for food,” I lean my head against the cold window and watch a stretch of uniform concrete office buildings pass us by. This whole area is just crummy old apartments and stores and businesses that look like they haven’t been kept in good condition in ages.

“Nope. Shoulda thought of that before sleeping in.” Easy for Ymir to say, since she already ate. Meanwhile, I’m making futile efforts to will my stomach to stop growling.

“Come on, just stop at this gas station for like 5 seconds. I’m dying here, Ymir,” I press my forehead harder against the window and mimic a wistful regret-filled stare towards the nearest QuikTrip.

“Well that’s too bad, isn’t it? Looks like you’ll just have to die, then, because I’m not gonna be late today.”

“Since when do you care about being late?” I grumble. Ymir doesn’t answer, just stares ahead and does her best to pretend I’m not here. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how she feels about me or anyone else really, since she spends so much time building up this perception people have of her, like she’s an untouchable, unshakable brick wall.

While I’m pondering this, it dawns on me how tired I am. You’d think the extra sleep this morning would have given me time to rest, but all it seems to be doing is making me wish I could go back to bed. I can’t fall asleep, I tell myself. I’m reminded of high school, when I would be so tired in the mornings that I’d somehow fall asleep in the five minutes it took to get to school. I’ve learned nothing since then. Pretty soon I’m in that half-sleeping state where it barely registers that I’m awake and I sort of forget where I am.

“Hey,” a hand swats my shoulder, “We’re here. Don’t fall asleep.”

I open my eyes. Guess I actually did fall asleep, then.

“Hey, you listening to me?” Ymir sounds impatient, “What’s with you today?”

“I’m awake,” I mumble, pushing myself away from the car window and exiting the truck in slow motion. Ymir snorts when I finally get my feet on solid ground and wobble slightly. She tells me my hair looks like a half-shaved porcupine, which I’m really hoping is an exaggeration. Probably isn’t, since I didn’t have time to fix it this morning and my last haircut was a tedious and nerve-wracking experiment with a kitchen knife and a shaving razor. (It’s not like I did it that way for shits and giggles. My scissors disappeared.)

If you told me three years ago that I would one day work at a place called Friendly Earth that sold things like organic vegan fat free granola and wheat grass chia beverages and kombucha, whatever the hell that is, I’d probably laugh in your face and tell you to fuck off. I should explain that I don’t actually have any personal attachment to this job and I’m not about to go on some health kick where all I eat is overpriced plants and stuff packaged in brown and green recycled packaging. (Why does every organic product have brown and green logos and 9 times out of 10 feature leaves? Who knows. Maybe it’s to give you the illusion that you’re eating healthy? Maybe we should start putting leaves on potato chip bags.) I only work here because I have to work somewhere, and that somewhere just happened to be a hole-in-the-wall natural grocer with an air conditioner that should’ve curled up and died back in the 80s and a name that makes me want to rip my hair out every time I tell someone where I work. You try sounding dignified and cool while explaining that you’re an employee at a place called “Friendly Earth: Mother Nature’s First Choice!”

My problem is that customers expect Ymir and me to know everything there is to know about this stuff. Ymir’s picked up a lot of it from her girlfriend, so most of the time when someone asks her which vegan green tea is better she can bullshit something. I’m hopeless. Someone asked me once if tofu was vegetarian and I said no. On top of that, my personality has been described as “abrasive,” “a little overwhelming,” and probably most accurately, “shit.” It’s not that I’m slacking off or not trying hard enough to do my job, I just can’t keep my mouth shut long enough to not piss people off. Luckily, our boss is more than happy to answer anyone’s questions and will sometimes appear seemingly out of nowhere if it means Ymir and I don’t have to talk to anyone.

Our boss, also the store’s owner and founder, is a tiny woman named Petra Ral. She’s probably in her late twenties or early thirties, but her height is about that of your average middle schooler and I would honestly not be surprised if every piece of clothing she owns is flower-printed. She’s probably cut the two of us way more slack than we deserve by not just firing us both within the first week of working for her, but that’s not to say she’s a pushover or doesn’t make us work.

For instance, this morning I still have one arm in my jacket sleeve when Petra puts a broom in my hand and a dustpan in Ymir’s and tells us there’s been a mishap with a bag of semolina flour that she needs us to clean up.

“One of the bags they delivered yesterday split while I was stocking the shelves,” She says, then looks at me and adds, “You look tired.”

“Yeah,” Ymir butts in before I can respond, “Walking Dead over here thought he’d sleep in this morning. How much flour are we dealing with here?”

“About half the bag. It’s not too bad, but if you could clean that up before we have any customers that would be great,” Petra flips back into boss mode instantaneously, shifting around on her feet like she’s got about a million things to do and she can’t decide which is more important so she just stands there waiting for us to get going.

“You got it captain,” I give her a half-assed salute and head back to check out the damage. After yesterday, it’s actually kind of nice to have a totally normal, nothing haunted or weird, routine sort of day, even if it means I’m half asleep and stuck cleaning up cornmeal and dealing with people who ask a million useless questions instead of just buying their expensive-ass herbal tea and being done with it.

* * *

Or not.

"For the last time, ma'am, we don't make baked goods here because we do not have an oven."

"Well, you should."

"Listen, lady, this place is barely big enough for everything in it, so no, we shouldn't have an oven because that would be a fire hazard. This fact hasn't changed since I last told you the exact same thing 5 minutes ago. You want a muffin, there's actual bakeries everywhere. There's one like one block away!"

for whatever reason, one major portion of our customers is comprised of judgmental, scruninizing old ladies who like the sound of their own voices and ask the same questions over and over. This particular woman has fluffy, patchy white hair that looks like cotton candy strings glued to her head and she's so shriveled I have to assume she crawled out of some ancient tomb just to make life hard for me. She's a regular customer and thinks she's soooo clever by pretending to forget whatever I tell her if she doesn't think I'm being polite enough.

"that's nice, sonny. just one question," she smiles at me and I want to send her back to whatever hole in the ground she clawed her way up from, "Do you make baked goods here at this store?"

I could strangle someone.

"Alright, Lady I'm only saying this once. w-"

"Finding everything okay, Miss?" Petra appears behind the register next to me like she's been waiting for an opportunity to take over before I steer this train completely off the rails, "Of you're looking for bakery items, I'm afraid we don't sell them here, but if you'd like I can direct you to a place that does."

She taps my arm and mouths "back off" before turning back to the old fossil to give directions, and I get a chance to sit back and take a good look at the store around me. Specifically, the left hand corner shelves where we keep energy bars and trail mix. There’s someone standing with their back to me, not moving or browsing or even picking anything up. They’re just staring at a shelf of Clif Bars like there’s some fascinating thing happening inside the box of peanut butter flavored bars. The weirdest part is that I don’t remember anyone being in the store except for Petra, the old hag, Ymir, and me. Business is pretty slow today, and we’d all probably know if someone was here. Plus we have this funky contraption that rings a little string of jingle bells whenever the door opens, so even if this person came in while I was busy I would’ve heard them come in.

Our mystery customer turns to the side slightly, and now I get a better look at them. They’re young, about my age or younger, and a probably a few inches shorter than me. Stringy, dark brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail, blank expression, roundish face, nondescript oversized green sweatshirt and fading jeans. There’s nothing weird about the way they look. This could be any other disheveled student going on a granola bar run, except I can’t shake this weird feeling that they’re not. The feeling gets about a million times stronger when they shift their gaze so they’re staring me dead in the eyes and the hair on my arms stands straight up. They make a thumbs up and jab the air behind them, motioning outside, and then they either mouth “later” or “loser.” Either they need to talk or they’re gonna shove me in a trashcan in the alley behind the shop. Probably not the second one. I nod, really hoping this exchange is over so I can break eye contact. Luckily, the hag is my savior this time.

I guess I missed the whole exchange she had with Petra, because now she’s thanking her profusely and making her way to the front door. Before she does though, she snaps my attention away from the stranger in the corner by patting me firmly on the back and telling me sternly, “Get a better haircut, son.”

When she’s gone, Petra sighs heavily and the fakey plastic grin disappears from her face.

“Good riddance,” She mutters. Even Petra has a breaking point, I guess. I look back at the corner. The stranger is gone, almost like they were never there.

“What are you looking at?” Petra asks, squinting at the granola bar shelf.

“Was there a person there before? Like five seconds ago?” I ask, even though I know there’s no way she would’ve seen anyone over there.

“Don’t think so. Just us and the old lady. Ymir’s on a lunch break so she’s not here. Why?”

“No reason. Thought I saw someone but it just looked like it. Probably the lighting or something…” I trail off.

“I have a question,” She says, crossing her arms and running her hands over bare arms, “Is it about ten degrees colder in here than it was a minute ago?”

Of course it is. I don’t know what it is with dead people and jacking with your thermostat but if you really think there’s something in your house, check the room temperature because it’s probably a lot colder than usual.

I mumble a string of swears under my breath. This just had to happen on the day I thought I was getting a day off from this crap. I can’t just blow this ghost off, either. As much as I want to, I already agreed to meet them outside later, and I know from experiences that pissing off a dead person can land you in some big trouble. I once agreed to help some college kid who’d died in a car wreck put his own soul to rest by talking to his ex-girlfriend about getting some of his old stuff back from her (who knows why that was supposed to work) but I forgot and he haunted my car for a week, nearly putting me in the hospital by running me into a tree. So, on principle I try to avoid making promises with ghosts I know nothing about, and of course my sleep-deprived ass just broke that rule. All I can do right now is hope that this kid won’t try to kill me if I don’t meet them until after work. I guess I’ll just have to find out, but for now I have shelves to restock and customers to deal with.

* * *

We meet behind the store after it closes. I tell Ymir I don’t need a ride today, that I’ve got something to do and I’ll just call a cab or something, then wait for her to drive away before dashing into the alleyway. For a second I’m worried my friend from the other side blew me off, and I regret telling Ymir not to wait for me. It’s still freezing cold today, and walking home isn’t an option at this point. I’m about to just throw in the towel and call a cab to come pick me up when the temperature drops from cold to polar and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Then, there comes the feeling that someone is there with me, and the psychic-like sense of knowing things about whoever is there. This presence is loud, strong, around my age, and a girl.

“You actually showed,” a voice says. Her voice is more human and solid than I expected, like they’re still a new ghost, but it’s undoubtedly a ghost’s voice, “I thought you blew this off.”

I turn around to see the stranger from earlier today leaning against the brick wall of Friendly Earth, picking at a hangnail. To me, She looks like any other living person, entirely solid. To anyone else this little meeting would look like me talking to a wall. She’s either a really strong spirit or she hasn’t been dead long enough to lose any human qualities.

“I’m here,” I grumble, “Just tell me what your deal is and get this over with.”

The ghost thinks for a minute, probably not sure where to start beyond “well, I’m dead.”

“I’m Sasha,” She says, “Sasha Braus if you need to know my last name. And you are?”

“Jean. Jean Kirschstein if you need to know my last name. I’m assuming you need something from me so just tell me what I have to do.”

Sasha looks confused. “Like what?”

“Like, burn an old prized possession, help a family member come to terms with your death, take an object back from someone. Finish what you couldn’t. Standard ghost stuff. Happens in movies all the time. That’s why you’re here, right?”

She doesn’t say anything, and I realize that might not be why she’s here. I’m so frustrated I could scream, but instead I laugh. I don’t know why, but this whole situation is pissing me off so much that the only thing I can think to do is crack up, so that’s what I do.

“What’s so funny?” She asks, looking at me like I just sprouted another head.

“You’re telling me,” I say between cackling, “That I… waited all day…. to talk to some dead chick… because I thought…. I thought you’d at least have something for me to do?”

“Sorry to disappoint you?”

“Why hell did you talk to me in the first place?” I say, not really sure if I sound angry or amused or both. Sasha looks like she’s about to kick me in the ribs. Considering how solid-looking her form is she could probably accomplish that pretty easily.

“Someone to talk to,” she says flatly, “You think being dead is a picnic? It’s lonely. And ass-borning.”

“I have a life you know,” I know I sound like a real dick telling some lonely dead girl, but all I want is to get out of this alley, “I didn’t ask to be able to see ghosts. I don’t do stuff like this, okay? Find someone else.”

A part of me tells me I’m being selfish. I tell that part of me to fuck off and shut his mouth.

Sasha glares at me.

“What life do you have?” She retorts. Ouch.

“I’ve got a job to worry about, in case you didn’t notice,” I say defensively. Nobody makes digs at me for contributing nothing to society except for me, “And I’m generally just a busy guy. I don’t have time to keep you company. I’m sick of dealing with dead people all the time.”

I shouldn’t have said that. For all I know Sasha could think I’m just some random kid who can see ghosts. Sure, I’ve done plenty of odd tasks for ghosts but if you go around helping anyone with unfinished business you end up being a carrier pigeon for the dead.  And I’m no pigeon.

“So you’ll do it for other people?” She’s suspicious now. I’m fucked.

“It’s not that simple,” I try to choose my words carefully in case she decides to send something flying into my skull, which is no easy task for me.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not a pigeon,” is not what I wanted to say, but that’s what comes out. Sasha narrows her eyes at me, “What I mean is I don’t go around doing whatever people ask me to do for them. I’m not some kind of paranormal postal worker. I don’t even want to know ghosts exist, let alone interact with you. I only get involved if I have to. You’re not asking for me to do anything, and you’re not hurting me or anyone else, so I don’t have to get involved. Unless you’re planning on haunting my apartment, in which case have fun dealing with the guy who lives in my air vents.”

“I see how it is,” she nods and holds up her hands, “Fine. My mistake. I’ll just find someone else. Have a nice life, Jean Kirschstein.”

I wait for her to disappear, fade into the brick wall or sink into the dirt. Instead she just walks away, no ghostly drama or fancy tricks. She actually waves to me before turning the corner, like she’s a normal living person and this is a normal, human situation. It’s like she’s determined to hold onto being alive. She’s totally opposite from most of the ghosts I’ve met, who hang around wailing and complaining about being stuck between life and death, floating around freely and phasing through solid objects for fun.

I think about the look she gave me before walking away. Oh shit, I think. The sarcasm in her last words to me is just now registering. You’re just digging yourself deeper and deeper into this hole, Jean. Because whether I like it or not, I haven’t seen the last of Sasha Braus.

****  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you liked this chapter. if you have any feedback or questions, my writing blog is beanvolio.tumblr.com and i'd love to hear from you. you can also check out my main blog (wormparty) or my snk blog (ajeander)
> 
> i'm hoping to get better about posting chapters more frequently, and i'm sorry about the delay this time around

**Author's Note:**

> my writing tumblr is beanvolio and if you have any questions or comments drop me an ask over there. my main is wormparty, my snk dump blog is ajeander, and my art blog is wallmarco so check those out too if you want.


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